


Iron Hard

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Community: blindfold_spn, Episode Related, Gunplay, Hand Kink, M/M, Unbeta'd, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on <a href="http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com">blindfold_spn</a>:  <i>Sam/Dean, gunplay.  Sam is obsessed with Dean's hands, especially when he handles his gun. He just wants Dean to use his hands and gun all over, and in, Sam.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Hard

**Author's Note:**

> _Explicit_ , graphic, highly unrealistic gunplay (though that should go without saying, really). And a little bit of choking just for flavour. Set post-4.01.

Five minutes after the whole 'touched by an angel' revelation, Dean is seated at the table in their motel room, every gun they own spread across its surface. His hands are covered in gun oil, the room reeking of it, mixing with the scent of his sweat and the leftover aroma of pizza.

Sam still can't take his eyes off him, can't believe he's here at all. Everything he'd tried to do, all the begging and pleading that went nowhere and accomplished nothing, and yet here Dean is anyway. Alive and well, cleaning the guns like he's been gone five minutes instead of four months.

Sam focuses on Dean's hands, the way they know every piece of every gun by touch alone. Dean's whistling as he works, a soft rag going mostly unused by his side. He's watching his hands, but when Sam comes out of the bathroom he looks up and grins.

"Still got that stopwatch, Sammy?" he asks. He twirls his Taurus PT92 easily on two fingers. "Wanna see if I still got the touch."

They haven't timed each other in years. Dean used to keep a record of how long it took each of them to strip their guns to parts and reassemble them, mostly to goad Sam into doing his share of the maintenance. Sam was too competitive to let it go unchallenged when he was younger, but he outgrew that kind of motivation long before he left for college. He still has the stopwatch, though--and looking at Dean's smile, the way his hands curl easily, capably around the grips of the gun, Sam can't think of anything he wants more right now.

He digs through his duffel and finds the stopwatch, coming over to sit at Dean's side for the best view. Dean shifts away from the table a bit and takes a breath, the Taurus like an extension of his hand.

"Ready?" Sam asks, thumb poised on the starter button.

Dean takes a deep breath and cracks his neck.

"Go."

Dean's hands blur into motion and Sam is instantly transfixed. He loves the way Dean's hands look on a gun, the elegance of his fingers juxtaposed against the unforgiving surface of a killing machine. Those hands soothed Sam as a child, fed him and picked him up when he fell, and those memories clash wildly with the heat that flares low in his gut when he sees how easily Dean uses them to take things apart. Three seconds, four, five--and then Dean says, "Stop," and Sam's thumb clicks the button on autopilot, his brain engaged somewhere lower down.

The Taurus is in five pieces on the table, each laid out half an inch apart with military precision. Dean lets out the breath he took before he started and glances at Sam.

"Tell me that was less than ten seconds, or I'll have to shoot myself."

"Six point two," Sam manages to respond. He hopes Dean doesn't notice how his own hands are shaking.

Dean grunts. "Not too bad." He nods and takes another breath, hands poised over the table. "Let's see how fast I can put her back together."

Sam bites his tongue, hard, to keep his whimper unheard. He nods silently and waits for Dean to give the start order again.

"... go."

 _Click-click-click_ \--barrel, spring, slide, snick-lock it into place and slam home the magazine--and Dean is saying, "Stop" and twirling the Taurus on his fingers again, that grin turned wide and smug across his face.

"Five point nine," Sam grinds out, eyes fixed on Dean's finger hooked casually through the trigger guard. He feels hot all over, sure he must be flushing bright red. Sweat breaks out on his lower back, in his armpits, behind his knees.

"Yes!" Dean grips the gun and raises his arms in victory. "I'll get it down to five-even, both ways, just you watch."

Sam nods again. He feels feverish. Maybe Dean should check his temperature. His hands are probably warm, with a lingering scent of metal underlying the harshness of the gun oil. It would probably taste bitter in Sam's mouth. He can't take his eyes off Dean's hand, so negligently holding the gun.

"Hey." Dean pokes him in the belly with the Taurus, which is thankfully unloaded. "What's wrong with you?"

"N-nothing," Sam stutters. He tracks that hand like a dog hoping for a treat from its master, helpless to take his gaze away. He wants Dean's hands on him, right now, everywhere.

Dean stops moving. The gun is still resting against Sam's stomach; now the muzzle moves slightly, stroking up-and-down in a light touch that makes Sam inhale sharply.

"Something you wanna tell me, Sam?"

The gravel in Dean's voice takes on an extra shade of darkness, rasping over Sam's nerves. The Taurus strokes a smooth hot line from his navel to his breastbone, pressing a little harder now, the metal slightly cool through Sam's t-shirt, indenting his skin. Sam squirms in his seat and breathes faster, keeps his eyes down, scared to meet Dean's gaze. The gun travels up further, trailing over his chest--detouring to press cheekily against his nipples, making him start--and ends up under his chin, pushing it up. Sam swallows hard and looks his brother in the face, trying to be prepared for anything.

Dean is looking at him thoughtfully, head tilted and eyes narrowed. He stays like that for several long moments, stretching Sam's nerves to breaking point. Sam is hard, his pulse racing, hands gripping the chair by his thighs so Dean can't see them trembling. He wants something to happen very, very badly, but he doesn't know _what_.

Quicker than thought, Dean's hand drops. The Taurus nestles in alongside Sam's hard cock, the length of the barrel fitting snugly in his groin and sliding ruthlessly against him. Sam's eyes flutter closed despite himself, and he chokes on a gasp. His hips press up in sheer reflex, and he's rewarded with another long rub of metal.

"So that's how it is, huh?" Dean's voice is dark and amused, with that edge of turned-on to it that Sam has always wanted for himself. "I can work with that."

"No--it's not--" Sam opens his eyes and licks dry lips, thrills to how Dean's gaze fixes on his mouth immediately. "Not--not just the _gun_ ..."

Dean's grin hooks, takes a turn into wicked. He leaves the Taurus where it is and drags the forefinger of his other hand slowly, oh so slowly over the outline of Sam's erection. Sam bites off a moan and tries not to pant too obviously.

"Uh-huh, I get it," Dean says. "Got a thing for my hands, Sam?"

Sam's cock is suddenly engulfed in a wide, warm grip, strong and tight and totally shocking. He arches up and makes a strangled sound, hears Dean's breathy laughter dimly through a haze of _ohgodwantmorenow_.

"That answers that question," and then Dean's on the floor between Sam's knees and his hands are sliding up under Sam's shirt, nails trailing over his skin and cutting tiny fiery lines of sensation all the way up to his neck. Dean gets a grip on his throat and gives a not-quite-rough squeeze, and Sam can't do a damn thing to hide his moan this time. Dean pauses, does it again, and Sam's hands come up of their own accord, wrapping around Dean's wrists. He doesn't try to pull Dean away; he just wants to feel it, let Dean know this is okay. Sam angles his head back, baring his throat, and hears Dean curse half under his breath.

" _Fuck_ , Sam. So fucking hot."

"Please," Sam says. "Your hands, Dean--love watching you with the guns, the way you touch them. Want you to touch me like that." _Like you own me_ , he doesn't say, but the meaning is clear enough. He keeps one of Dean's hands around his throat and pushes the other back down to his lap, spreading Dean's fingers over gun and cock together.

"Jesus," Dean whispers.

"Please," Sam repeats, and his voice breaks a little this time.

Dean's fingers tighten around his throat, slowly, slowly, stopping just when Sam's breath starts to get choppy. He unzips Sam's jeans with his other hand, pulling them awkwardly down below his ass, Sam arching up to help. His boxers follow swiftly, and then Sam is half naked and his cock is half a foot from his brother's face. Dean picks up the Taurus and runs it along his naked cock, smooth and cold, the muzzle pressing hard against the purple-red head and making Sam see stars. Then Dean is moving on, tracing the vein back to the root and down to his balls, rubbing them on the cut-away length of the slide.

Sam is shuddering from the intensity of it; not just the physical sensations, although those are amazing enough, but the emotional hit of doing this with Dean. A whole, healthy, alive Dean who sees him wanting this and is giving it to him, no questions asked. He opens his eyes and sees a hungry look on Dean's face, dark and hard-edged, and it makes an extra shiver run through him. Dean is hot enough on a normal day; a turned-on, possessive Dean is fucking incendiary. Sam melts for that look without a thought, tilting his hips up and spreading his thighs wider, almost losing his balance on the chair. Dean lets go of his throat and catches him when he overbalances, puts Sam's feet on his shoulders. Sam's ass is barely on the edge of the seat; all his weight is supported against Dean's shoulders, leaving him wide open for anything Dean wants to do.

What Dean wants to do, apparently, is jerk Sam off while fucking him with a gun.

He teases for a while, running the gun along the crease of Sam's ass, tracing the delicate paths of skin framing his cock, massaging his perineum with the ridged grip of the back strap. Sam tries his best to keep his noises to a minimum, but the harsh press of metal and the tiny brushes of Dean's hands against his skin are soon too much for him to handle, and his moans get louder. He can hear Dean talking to him, telling him how hot he looks, what a good slut he is, and instead of shameful he feels desperate for more. He keens deep in his throat and tries to arch more, spread wider, past the point of articulating what he wants with words.

"Such a fucking slut for me, God," Dean breathes. He takes Sam's cock in a hard grip and starts jacking him, just short of painful, pulling noises out of him that Sam didn't know he could make. It's unforgiving, merciless, but so fucking good he can barely think to keep breathing. He feels Dean's mouth pressing kisses on his inner thighs, then Dean's tongue is licking into his ass between two of his fingers, stretching Sam and driving him absolutely wild.

Dean's fingers are hot and blunt in his ass, callouses rasping against delicate flesh and firing up every nerve he's got. He pushes deep, licking spit inside to make him wet, rubbing one fingertip against Sam's prostate over and over. Sam swears a blue streak and tries to pull Dean closer but he can't get a decent grip, has to sit there and take whatever Dean gives him or risk stopping altogether. Which he so very definitely does not want; he's pretty sure he wants to stay like this forever, Dean's tongue and fingers inside him, Dean's hand around his cock.

Then Dean moves back and there's the _snapclick_ of the Taurus' slide being pulled back, and Sam feels the end of it circling lightly around his hole.

"Oh God, fucking do it," Sam begs, well beyond pride at this point. "Fucking, just--"

And then there's the absolute chill of metal sliding in, the naked barrel of the gun finding its way home inside his body.

It doesn't go in very far; pulled back, the slide only reveals about two inches of the barrel. Sam knows he could take more, could probably take the whole fucking gun right up to the grips, but it's Dean's favourite weapon and that would probably ruin it altogether, so this is all he's going to get. It doesn't matter; this is blowing his mind already, just the thought of Dean's gun inside him, Dean's hand on his cock providing more stimulation as he begins to fuck Sam shallowly as if the Taurus were a toy. It's not gentle--in fact it hurts, more than Sam expected--but it's Dean directing the action, Dean's hands on him, and Sam trusts that his brother won't let it go too far. He relaxes back against the chair and lets himself go, rides Dean's hand and the gun in his ass and allows himself to _really fucking enjoy_ it.

Once he does that, it gets easier. Dean presses closer, spreading his knees wider, and Sam opens a little more. The barrel slides in deeper, angles just right into his prostate, and a near-scream escapes him. He feels Dean grin against the inside of his thigh, feels the bite of teeth as Dean repeats the move, over and over, pushing him headlong into possibly the most violent orgasm he's ever experienced. Sam shudders so much his legs fall away, his cock spurting wet messy strings of white squarely on Dean's face, the sight of it making Sam jerk helplessly again. He comes until he feels drained and empty, the gun barrel resting inside him with no resistance at all now, his body still twitching intermittently with aftershocks.

Dean eases the gun away from his body and pulls one of Sam's legs over his shoulder again. He leans in close, checking for damage, and presses a soft sucking kiss to Sam's hole.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam says, heaving for breath.

"Call me Dean," his brother says with a smirk. "Now get your ass on the bed so I can fuck you. Been waiting forfuckingever to get my hands on you."

Sam's up and moving so fast he almost falls over.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Iron Hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/350518) by [heardtheowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heardtheowl/pseuds/heardtheowl), [veronamay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay)




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